One Blind House
by DIY Sheep
Summary: “The man is blind and crippled. How on earth did he manage to escape?” Cuddy threw her hands up in her trademark Houseian exclamation of frustration. “Oh forget I said that. This is House. We will probably find him halfway up Everest.”
1. Chapter 1

_One blind House,_

_One blind House._

_See how he limps,_

_See how he limps._

_Cuddy went after him with a carving knife,_

_Did you ever see such a thing in your life?_

_As one blind House._

* * *

House was sitting on the couch amid the wreckage. 

"What are you doing House?" asked Wilson cautiously from the doorway.

House didn't move. "Why Wilson, what does it look like I'm doing. I am watching television."

"You can see," said Cuddy incredulously.

"Of course he can't," hissed Wilson.

"I heard that." House waggled the whiskey bottle he was holding at the television. "That… is a vicious rumour, spread by malcontents and Chase."

"You can't see House," said Wilson more forcefully. "And the television isn't even on."

House's only response was to stand up slowly. He turned around to the general direction of Wilson and Cuddy. "Isn't it?" he asked sarcastically. "Really? Because I wouldn't know." And with unerring accuracy he threw the whiskey bottle at the television set, smashing the glass and sending sparks all over the place.

"Right, that's it." Wilson made a grab for House, who, with surprising agility, ducked away round the couch and backed up against the wall.

"Leave me alone Wilson," he growled menacingly as he looked blindly around.

"How do we get him?" asked Cuddy. "Want me to call the hospital?"

"Leave him to me," said Wilson vehemently as he untied his tie, all the while steadily advancing on House.

"Come on House, let's take you back to the hospital," he said.

House drunkenly waggled his head from side to side. "No way Wonder Boy," he sneered. "I am not going back there. And I'm bigger than you." He tried to slide along the wall, but ended up sidling into a chair and sending it and everything on it flying, only adding to the debris in the flat.

Using the distraction Wilson leapt on House. House went down like a sack of drunken flour. They went crashing to the floor in a heap. A whiskey bottle went rolling across the floor.

"Gerroff me," cried House, his arms flailing. "Let me go." A lucky punch caught Wilson across the jaw and he fell backwards.

House tried to use this opportunity to crawl away, but almost comically scooted head first into a wall.

He was still reeling when Wilson regrouped and grabbed the back of his shirt and violently pushed him face first into the floor.

"No," said Wilson as he pulled House's hands behind his back. "I am not going to let you go."

House kept up a stream of curses as Wilson kept pinned House down and used his tie to bind House's hands behind his back.

Wilson looked up and Cuddy saw tears in his eyes, though from the punch or what he had to do she didn't know. "Help me get him to the car will you?" said Wilson.

Cuddy and Wilson hauled the still struggling House to his feet and dragged him to the car.

By the time they got there he was a dead weight. Everything had taken their toll and House was wasted – coming in and out of consciousness. The two struggled with their burden.

"We could just put him in the trunk," said Cuddy. It was meant as a joke. But Wilson just gave her a look that chilled her. This is my best friend. Yes he is an ass, but I love him – and while it is tempting to stick him in the trunk, sadly no… no fucking way.

He didn't say any of this. Instead Wilson smiled and countered with: "How about we just put him in the back seat?"

Together they managed to sort of throw House into the back seat of the car.

"Can you lock the door and get his cane," asked Wilson. "I'll strap him in." Cuddy did as she was bid, leaving Wilson to maneuver House's uncooperative and very dead weight into a position where he could put the seatbelt on him.

House 'looked' up as Wilson was fastening the seatbelt around him.

"I hate you."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Wilson slumped down into the back seat next to House. "You are a maudlin drunk, you know that," he said as he wiped his tired eyes, noticing their wetness for the first time.

"I know."

Cuddy returned with House's cane and watched the two of them as they sat slumped side by side. Both exhausted. Both in agony.

She handed Wilson the cane. "Just make sure he doesn't throw up."

Wilson nodded slowly and painfully pulled his own seatbelt on, looking over at House.

As they drove to the hospital Cuddy made a point of not looking into the rear view mirror. Both exhausted. Both in agony. But together.

She drove, trying not to listen to the murmured conversation going on in the back. But she knew 'together' mattered when she heard a soft laugh from the back and Wilson's voice saying pointedly "No I am not untying you, you bastard – and don't say my tie is ugly, you can't even see it."

* * *

House woke up. Hung over and yes, oh joy of joy, still blind. He tried to lift a hand to rub his eyes, but realized he was restrained. 

"What did I do?" he said tiredly to the ceiling.

"You busted out and somehow made it back home, although how exactly we haven't figured out. Then, in what was presumably a fit of self pity you got stinking drunk… and you had your t-shirt on backwards - which just looked silly," came a disembodied voice from his left.

"Hence why you now have, what I presume is a terrible hang over and are tied to your bed." The voice continued. "Although that last part may also have something to do with you also throwing up in the Dean of Medicine's car."

"Oh great."

There was a pause.

"I am in trouble aren't I?"

"Yes." House could practically see the cock of Wilson's head. "I would have to say you are."

* * *

"Where am I," he asked. 

Cuddy looked down at her feet and hesitated. She hadn't been looking forward to this conversation. She knew how much House valued control and right now he had none.

"You are in a private room."

She tried to say it casually, but House picked up on the hesitancy in her tone.

"Which floor?" he said simply.

She tried to head him off at the pass. "Does it matter?"

"Which floor?" he repeated slowly.

Cuddy caved. "Third," she whispered.

He didn't blow. He didn't scream. He just lay back on the pillows and sighed. "So I suppose there is no door handle on this side then."

"No."

Then he surprised her, as he always did. "You did what you thought you had to."

After a moment he sat up a bit. "Can I have these off now?" he said tugging at the restraints. "I promise I won't throw up in your car again."

Cuddy looked at him incredulously. "You don't remember do you," she said.

"Remember what."

"Oh nothing too important. Only that you trashed your house, nearly killed yourself and hit your only friend."

House was stunned. "He never said anything," he whispered. "I didn't know."

Cuddy cruelly continued. "And you threw a whisky bottle through the TV screen." She watched House flinch.

"So until you can convince us you aren't a selfish deranged self destructive jerk you can stay like that for a while and have a think about things." She held up a finger. "And before you say anything… no House, there is a difference between feeling sorry for yourself and 'wallowing'. And you have turned 'wallowing' into an art form. So don't expect sympathy from me."

Cuddy got up. He heard her knock on the door and then the jangle of keys as it was unlocked.

She paused in the doorway. "And as you can't escape I have scheduled you a physio session for your leg. Think of it as payback for the car."

He heard the solid click of the lock as the door closed behind her. It was suddenly very quiet in the room, intensified by the total darkness. So unlike the noisy beeping bustle of the hospital that House was used to.

He's heard the smile in Cuddy's voice as she'd rolled the word physio on her tongue. But he couldn't see the look of worry on her face as she strode down the corridor.

* * *

They sat side by side on House's bed. An untouched meal sat on the little nightstand by the bed. The third in a row he hadn't eaten. Wilson was prattling on about various tests he was going to have to have. Saying oncology type things like 'how the chances looked good' and 'with time you could be back to normal'. Yeah right thought House as he fingered his right leg. I have all the medical luck. 

"… And Steve says hi and wants to know when you are coming home," finished Wilson.

House looked up from his reverie. "Steve says hi?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah, he misses you."

House scoffed. "How can you tell that?"

"I am an expert in rat psychology and I can tell you Steve is pining," said Wilson mock seriously, but inwardly he was pleased when he got a small smile out of House.

But the smile was as fleeting as a shooting star. As it faded House uncertainly put his hand out until he found Wilson's chest and then unsteadily began to move it up to his face. Wilson stayed perfectly still as House traced lightly over his face, resting on his lip and jaw, feeling the scab where the lip was split.

After a moment he put his hand down and sighed. "Wilson…"

Wilson watched as House got that awkward look on his face that always happened when he was desperately wracking his brains trying to work out how to be nice to somebody. It took a while. Wilson always imagined him digging up memories of Hall Mark card greetings or remembering back to his mom at Christmas. He smiled and cut him off. "It's OK House, you already apologized."

* * *

He'd never ever felt so helpless. The cheery nurse had come in to dress him, all the while nattering away about some shit. He had been lead out into the day room and deposited into a chair. 

Then she had cheerfully taken his cane.

"And you won't need this dearie," she said as she plucked it from his fingers.

"Hey," he said indignantly, waving his arms around. "Give me that back."

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you keep that in here. Hospital policy."

He stood up, just managing to balance himself on his good leg and the arm of the chair. "Stuff hospital policy," he yelled. "I need my Goddamn cane."

"Now now – there is no need to get upset Greg."

"Don't call me Greg," he said furiously.

"Cuddy, get Cuddy," he bellowed into the darkness. "I want to see Cuddy," he growled, completely ignoring the irony. He staggered around, nearly falling over something or someone. He felt hands grabbing him. He realized what they were going to do. "I don't need this. I just want my cane," he whined pathetically. He felt the prick of a needle in his arm and nothing more.

The next day there had been no cheery nurse. No cane. No Cuddy. Just the endlessness of the quiet room with the locked door.

He lay there, staring into the blackness and listening to the silence.

* * *

"Did you really tell Dr Martin to 'fuck off'?" asked Wilson. "You do know that is probably not the best approach to take with your psychiatrist." 

House said nothing. He just lay there with head facing the wall.

"I hear they banned you from the common room for causing a ruckus," he tried again.

Nothing.

Wilson sighed and leant over, unbuckling the straps on House's wrists, but even then House didn't move or acknowledge his presence.

"I brought chips," said Wilson hopefully as he rummaged through the bag he had brought and pulling out a packet. "Salty goodness." But even this had no effect.

They sat there for a while: House 'not staring' at the wall and Wilson slumped over on the chair by the bed, still holding the bag of chips.

Wilson didn't know how much later it was when House turned his head slowly in Wilson's direction. Normally he was pretty good at judging where people were, but this time he got it wrong.

"They took my cane," was all he said to a spot three feet from Wilson's left ear. Then he turned his head back to the wall.

* * *

"It's killing him," announced Wilson dramatically from the doorway. "We have to get him out of there." 

"Look, I know he's your friend, but I can't do anything until his psychiatrist gives the OK," she replied, not looking up from her paperwork.

"Have you seen him lately. This is like 'Infarction II: The Sequel'. He isn't eating or talking."

"He's wallowing," countered Cuddy. "He won't talk to the psychiatrist. He won't talk to the rehabilitation coordinator. He is just wallowing in his own self pity. If he is going to sulk, he can stay where he is."

"You have him locked up. Of course he's wallowing. And you are only encouraging him." Wilson slammed his hand down on her desk. "Because it's House and you know how he is you are being extra hard on him. But because House is…" Wilson looked around for a suitable adjective to describe his friend: eccentric, weird, not normal, different, total raving loony.

Eventually he settled on the right word. "But because House is 'House' all the usual treatments and care won't work on him. You can't leave him in the hands of the shrinks. You know they have never seen anyone like House. Dr Martin is already muttering about how many papers she is going to write. Next thing you know they'll be dissecting him."

He slumped down in a chair and tried to take a more reasonable approach. "You know perfectly well he's not suicidal. He's bored, he's frightened and right now he's got no control over anything in his life. He's been punished enough for his little stunt. He needs to work. That's the therapy he needs." Wilson looked at her urgently. Cuddy could see the desperation in his eyes. Too much desperation. She knew there was something neither of them were telling her.

Wilson lowered his voice. "Lisa, he needs to know he can work," he said gently.

Cuddy dropped her pen and relented. "OK Doctor Wilson, how are we going to do it? We have a big moody blind cripple with the personality of Jack the Ripper and the mentality of an eight year old on our hands."

She stood up to meet him. "How can you see this working? House is not exactly a pet person… unless you want to train Steve McQueen to become a seeing eye rat, and House already has a big stick. The last thing I want is to give him another one."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. How did Cuddy know about Steve? "Well – he'll be OK at home because I'm there and I've House proofed the house, but as for work…" Wilson gave a sly smile. "I have an idea."

* * *

"Doctor House, meet your 'seeing-eye doctor'. She'll be helping you at work." 

House put his head in his hands and groaned. "You really are evil, aren't you?"

Cuddy leaned down and hissed. "She was the only one willing to put up with you. You can always stay here..?"

House jerked his head up. "No, that's fine."

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

"Say something nice," ordered Cuddy.

He sighed deeply. "Thank you Cameron… for volunteering to be my bitch."

This proclamation was shortly followed by House's squawk as Cuddy cuffed him across the back of his head.

Cameron smiled uncertainly. House was rubbing the back of his head and scowling; Wilson was trying to hold back a snigger and Cuddy was glaring daggers at the impervious House. Oh yeah, this is going to work, she thought.

* * *

After they had left Wilson threw House's duffle bag at him. Being blind he had no idea there was an incoming duffle bag until it hit him in the head. 

"Ow," yelled House. "More respect for the blind cripple please." But Wilson could see he was smiling.

"Baby," said Wilson as he picked up the bag and began to pull clothes out of it, dropping them on the bed next to House. "Get dressed and we can get out of here."

A few minutes later House was dressed (T shirt on the right way this time) and caned up. Wilson could tell he was much happier in his own clothes and armed, but a moment later the fear returned.

"Which way," was all he said, but Wilson could see the nervousness behind House's words.

He went and stood next to House, and poked him in the ribs with his right elbow. "Why don't you hang onto this and let me lead?" he said softly.

"But you're the girl. You can't lead," said House, but he reached out and took Wilson's arm.

* * *

Cuddy watched them leave. It nearly broke her heart. It was bad enough to see him before as he gimped down the corridors. Now it was worse. Every step was tentative. He was afraid. No, he was terrified she decided. If he had known she was there he would have strode ahead full guns and probably walked into a door. But he didn't. She watched as he practically clung to Wilson – the only certainty.

* * *

"Play something for me." 

"No."

"Come on, the TV is…" Wilson searched for the appropriate word. "… broken. You play by ear anyway. So play," he said as he nudged House's leg.

House harrumphed. God Wilson was a pesky bastard. "What? Three blind mice?"

But Wilson didn't rise to the bait. "Whatever."

House didn't move for a minute, then he suddenly stood up and Wilson watched protectively as House uncertainly made his way across the room, bouncing gently off the piano it as he walked into it and then feeling his way around the curve of the instrument until he found the piano stool.

He opened the lid and found middle C. From there every note fell into place.

* * *

"_What's it today?" he asked._

"_Not telling."_

"_Oh, come on – how about a hint."_

"_Carrots."_

"_Too easy."_

* * *

"Wilson," he yelled. "Where's the toaster again."

Wilson looked up. "No, I am not letting you scam me into making you any more food. You want something to eat, you do it yourself," and he went back to his journal.

House grumbled, but soon Wilson could hear exaggerated clanging noises coming from the kitchen.

"What cha reading?" asked House as he carefully limped the three measured paces to the couch and sat down next to Wilson.

"How could you tell I was reading?"

House grinned and pointed to his head with a piece of toast. "I could hear the little wheels turning – they squeak."

Wilson humphed. "Its an oncology journal."

House held out his hand and Wilson plunked the remote into it. "No it's not," said House. "You're reading about blind people."

Wilson looked down at the sentence he had been staring at for the last five minutes. 'The eyes have amazing recuperative powers.' He looked up.

"Okay, how did you know that?"

"I didn't, you just told me."

House found the specially marked button and turned on the TV, seemingly paying Wilson no more attention. "Besides," he said through a mouthful of toast. "You stink of guilt."

Wilson jerked his head up sharply and examined House suspiciously. This was the first time either one of them had brought it up. But House was just sitting there, hands on his cane, one ear cocked as he listened to the news.

'Do you blame me?' was the question Wilson desperately wanted to ask. But he didn't. He just sat there beside House and watched the news, the journal forgotten on his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

Cameron tried her best, but even blind House seemed to find some sort of perverse satisfaction in running rings around her. In some way that made Wilson glad.

He found him on the roof:

He sniffed softly to himself. "Hey Wilson."

"Now how did you know it was me?" asked Wilson.

House grinned evilly. "I can smell your terrible aftershave a mile off." He turned and even though his eyes were sightless they stared right into the exact spot Wilson was standing. "Besides, when it comes to you, I don't need to see." He tapped his head with a finger. "It is all up here buddy – even down to that hideous tie you are wearing today. Tuesday's tie is green of snot," he sing songed.

Wilson shook his head. "Busted."

House frowned. "What do you mean?" He reached out and his hand connected with Wilson's chest. "I sense a tie…" He trailed off as he ran his hand down the length of Wilson's tie.

"You aren't… you bastard!"

"I am and I truly am heartless. 'Quack quack'"

House waggled his head in disbelief, his hands on Wilson's shoulders. "Do you mean to tell me you waited until I was blind before you wore that tie I bought you?"

House could feel Wilson's shrug underneath his hands. "I knew you'd tease me if you saw it, so this little black duck thought this was the perfect time."

Wilson was silent, but House could sense there was more to that thought.

"And what," prompted House.

"An incentive maybe?"

House turned away. "Do they make Braille ties," he said bitterly.

"Look at me Greg."

"Is that meant to be a joke?"

Wilson roughly grabbed House and spun him round until his back was against the balcony wall. He held House's head in his hands and stared into his face. "I see two of them – big, bold and bright blue."

"Well bully for you, cos I can't see Jack."

"For now." He emphasized. "You don't know about tomorrow. Tomorrow you might be laughing at my Daffy Duck tie again. You just don't know. It could be temporary," he urged furiously. "Don't give up. The House I know would never give up."

At this House crumbled. "I'm sorry Jimmy. It's eating me away," he said softly. House's sightless eyes bored into his. "I am afraid that there won't be anything of my life left."

Wilson tugged on House's ears. "What are these – chopped liver?"

House said nothing and they were silent for a while.

"Not thinking of jumping were you?" asked Wilson eventually.

"Nah, just came up here to get away from my 'seeing eye dog'. She keeps using this as an excuse to grope me. Give me a Labradoodle any day."

* * *

"_No, look for yourself."_

"_You can't just bully someone's sight back you know."_

"_Maybe. Maybe not. But I know you. You hate not knowing."_

"_What's the hint?"_

"_Think bacon."_

"_But you're Jewish!"_

* * *

"I want you to reach out and touch Doctor Wilson."

House screwed up his face. "Dude?"

"You need to learn how to touch people Doctor House," said the therapist patiently.

"I touch myself," leered House. "Isn't that good enough?"

Wilson sighed in exasperation. He grabbed House's hand and put it on his chest. "Just keep it above the waist, OK…. Arghhh!"

Smirk.

"…you bastard House."

* * *

"_How many of these did you buy?"_

"_Lots. I went to the Warner's Brother's store."_

"_So what's this one."_

"_Do you think I am that easy?"_

"_All right. What's the clue?"_

"_Ground control to Major Tom."_

"_David Bowie?"_

"_You're losing it House."_

"_Just joshing ya. I am thinking small, silly looking and from Mars."_

"_How did you get to that from Major Tom."_

_House smiled. "I am just that good."_

* * *

Touch is highly underrated in modern society. We touch inanimate objects all the time. We rarely touch people. People are much nicer to touch than computer keyboards or steering wheels. People are warm and soft, not hard and cold.

Gregory House had never considered touch like this before. He had never to. Sight and sound made up his observational skills. Sorry Greg… got to stop you there. Sight and sound 'had' made up your observational skills he thought to himself.

Now he had no sight.

But he found touch worked nearly as well as an observational tool. During early childhood babies would stick everything in their mouths to work out what it was. Not all that feasibly possible for an adult House decided. He couldn't go around sucking on everything – although in some instances that didn't sound half bad. He wondered if he could get Cuddy to participate in an experiment.

House learned that he could tell a lot about a person from touching them. He could put a hand on Wilson's chest and tell how he was feeling by his heart rate, well that – and the amount of huffing and sighing. He could 'accidentally' touch/grope Cuddy's breasts and judging by her reaction (ie – did she slap him or just growl menacingly) he could tell how stressed she was that day.

Touch should be given more respect thought House. Even though they were barely touching, a bit of an arm there, a leg there… House felt comforted. It connected him to the outside world.

It was nothing like the little quiet room with the locked door. In that room he had felt like he was drifting through outer space – unable to cry out or warn as he watched planets and civilizations grow and die far away in the distance.

When he felt Wilson's warmth he was somehow connected to all the people Wilson had ever touched in his life – from his mother to his lovers.

Maybe because Wilson was an oncologist he knew this. Did he lay hands on his patients mused House. Did it work? Was the hand of another person better than all the drugs and modern science in the world?

They had never spoken about it. The first night home Wilson had just laid down next to him and gone to sleep as if he'd known House needed to be near a human being. That was that. And every morning House felt a little more reconnected to the world – and maybe Wilson did too.

* * *

"_Foreman, come here."_

"_What."_

"_Which one is Doctor Wilson wearing today?"_

"_I am sorry Doctor House, but I am bound by my Hippocratic Oath. I cannot reveal that information."_

"_Do I have to remind you I am your boss?"_

"_I don't think giving you that information comes under any area of my contract."_

"_Traitor."_

* * *

"You are just being mean because you are upset."

"Think of it this way Cameron." House leered in close. "How many years of medical school and now you are nothing more than a dog," he said.

* * *

Cuddy watched as Cameron went past and bolted into the ladies room. Damn him, she thought. She went to find Wilson.

After a few minutes composing herself she decided it was time to face the world again. Cameron walked down the corridor. She stopped when she saw Wilson walking into House's office. She crept up the corridor and peeked in. He went to stand behind House's chair, then after a few words he hit him lightly on the head. House spun around and began gesturing wildly.

This seemed to have no affect on Wilson and he continued to lecture House. She noticed as he talked he put his hand on House's shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm blind Jimmy, not retarded. I've survived this long pretty all right. I'll be OK. I'll wait here."

Wilson gave him a suspicious look.

"Stop giving me that look and go," said House as he made shooing motions.

Wilson put up his hands in defeat. He was only going to be a few minutes. They just needed a few things from the grocery store. House would be fine. "Okay, okay. There is a bench about ten feet to your left," he said as he began to walk away.

* * *

Wilson dropped the bags. Ten minutes. I was only gone for ten minutes. What can happen in ten minutes?

House was sitting on the ground near the bench holding the two halves of his broken cane in his hand. He flinched slightly when Wilson put his hand on his shoulder, but didn't move.

"House?" said Wilson tentatively after a while. "You OK?"

House let out a shaky sigh and ran a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood on his chin. "No Jimmy, I am not OK. Not in any sense of the fucking word."

* * *

"Hold it still Goddamnit," growled Wilson in frustration as he tried to cut a straight line.

"I'm trying to."

"Well don't blame me if it is the wrong height."

"No Jimmy. I won't blame you," yelled House as he let go of the cane, the sudden release sending Wilson flying.

Wilson blanched. "House," he called. But House was already crashing down the hallway, collecting bruises as he went.

The sound of a door banging shut ended the outburst and Wilson was left standing in the kitchen holding the half sawed cane in his hand. He put it down on the bench and slowly continued his task – cutting it down to the right height and fitting the little rubber tip.

It was a beautiful cane: black and sleek with a gold ring. Not that House could tell though he thought sadly.

Then Wilson quietly padded down the hallway and left it leaning up against House's bedroom door.

* * *

"Hello, my name is Doctor House, but you can call me Greg. I'll be your doctor today. Some of you may have noticed that I am both blind and crippled, but that doesn't mean I can't diagnose you by smell alone."

"House – what are you doing? How did you get down here? And where is Cameron?"

He swung around in the direction of the very irritated female voice. "Why Doctor Cuddy. I am doing my duty by clinic duty," he said.

Cuddy strode over to him. "House. As much as I hate to say it: You are excused clinic duty for the time being."

She tried to pull him away to her office, but he broke away from her. "What… am I so pathetic I can't even cure the hypochondriacs and cold sufferers."

"Not here," she hissed. "Get to my office – now!"

"Are you pointing the way – cos I can't tell?" he bellowed loudly. Everyone in the clinic was staring at them. Drastic action was required. That was why they paid her the big bucks.

She reached up and grabbed his left ear. "This way," she said as she gave it a good twist.

House tried pawing her away, but she hung on tight and began to move. He could do nothing but follow.

* * *

Wilson came to pick him up. He took in the scene. Cuddy was at her desk, intently doing paperwork and ignoring House. House was sitting miserably on her couch. 'Caney The Fourth', as House called it, was propped up next to Cuddy's desk.

"Oh," was all he said.

"Oh, exactly," said Cuddy looking up.

* * *

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

In twelve hours you can go from being relatively happy to blind (now there was a word he had come to hate) drunk. In twelve hours you can blind your best friend.

Every night he imagined it. The screaming: raw, ragged, jagged sounds of agony that just went on and on and on. Writhing on the dirty ground. The pain making him twist and struggle as they tried to hold him down and cuff him. The sickening thud of the nightstick as it mercifully sent him into oblivion.

And where were you Jimmy boy? Where were you?


	4. Chapter 4

_House said nothing. He just tugged on the tie._

"_No."_

"_You have a mean streak you know that?"_

"_I do. You have told me many times. Mostly when I took the last slice of pizza."_

* * *

"Do you want to come while I take the patient's history?"

"Oh yeah. That will inspire confidence."

"It's just that you know your not allowed to go wandering on your own… and if I leave?"

"I know, I know. I am grounded by order of mom." He brushed her off. "Go. I'll listen to TV until you come back with the info."

He swiveled round and put his feet up on top of a now completely useless medical journal he had been reading last week and pretended to go sleep. He'd give her five minutes and then make a break for it. He was sick of people looking at him like he was some sort of 'cripple'. Looking out for him. Fuck it: was there one metaphor in the English language that didn't involve the optic nerve. He was over being molly coddled. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. He could feel them staring. And it wasn't fair because he couldn't glare back. He'd always thought his ice cold stare was one of his best features. Good for scaring interns and silly young women.

Speaking of which, Cameron should be far far away over the puppy dog rainbow by now. Hopefully she might meet a hungry Rotweiller. Time to escape. House grabbed his cane and keeping one hand in front of him carefully made for the office door.

Me and Steve McQueen, the two best escapers in the land he thought as he tried to turn the handle. He jiggled it a few times, but nothing. His heart sank. Those bastards. He limped over to the other door. It was the same. There was one final chance they might not have thought of – the balcony. But it was locked too.

Furious he snatched up the phone. "It's my life. It's my leg and it's my eyesight," he said without preamble when it answered.

Cuddy paused. "Actually it's not. Not at the moment."

"What do you mean?" he said darkly.

"I pulled some strings. Doctor Martin released you against medical advice, into Wilson's care… because you made him your proxy." She paused before continuing. "We didn't tell you. We thought it would be best."

House said nothing. He just slammed down the phone.

* * *

"Thanks Ernie, you are a marvel. I don't know how the door got stuck," said House smoothly.

"No problem Doctor House. It just looked like it accidentally got locked."

House stared convincingly in Ernie's direction and smiled. "Imagine that."

Ernie left and House was hot on his heels through the door. Pointlessly he 'looked' both ways down the corridor, randomly picked a direction and started off only to run into something big, soft, squishy and Wilson shaped.

He tried to bolt in the other direction, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"House… you're…"

"No damnit," he yelled as he broke free and limped a few more steps up the corridor. He had no idea where he was now, but rage was driving him on. "You're feeling guilty and you are being overprotective," he spat into the void. "I don't need you watching over me 24 hours a day making sure I don't get into trouble. I am a big boy. I can take of myself."

That hit home. "Fine then," yelled Wilson. "Go it alone."

"Thank you for your permission Mr Jimmy," hissed House as he strode away.

Wilson winced as House walked straight into a wall.

House stumbled back a few steps and would have fallen except Wilson was there, his arms around him, holding him up.

He pushed Wilson away and regained his footing, but then, after a moment, a small begrudging 'thanks' escaped his lips.

"Come one, let's get back to your office."

House looked suspicious.

"You aren't going to lock me in again?"

Wilson started. House was still angry, but sounded like such a little boy, pleading almost. He smiled. "No, but you're still confined to quarters until Cuddy stops being mad. How long did she say you were grounded for?"

House sighed. Life just wasn't fair. "Something about until hell freezes over."

* * *

"_Well are you going to guess?"_

"_No, I don't feel like it today."_

"_Not even if I give you a hint?"_

"_Nah, it's OK. I'm sure it's nice."_

* * *

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

In twelve hours you can go from being relatively happy to miserable. In twelve hours you can let your best friend down.

Every night he imagined it. Waking up alone, disorientated, cold, in agony… crawling around, bumping into sharp corners. Crying out for help. No one answering.

And where were you Jimmy boy? Where were you?


	5. Chapter 5

"What happened? You were…" Wilson wanted to say fine, but somehow that didn't seem appropriate. "You were doing okay, and now you are going off the rails again. Pissing off Cameron. Pissing off Cuddy."

"I'm fine," said House as he rummaged through the fridge. "Which side is the beer on again?"

"Left, bottom shelf," he said automatically. What happened outside the store?"

House froze for a second, but then continued with his search. "My cane got broken. That's it."

"Bullshit," spat Wilson, but House didn't rise to the bait. Wilson heard the clinking of the beer bottles as House pulled one out and popped the top.

After a moments silence Wilson practically twirled around in a circle in exasperation. "You are not fine. You have to be a little more… something. You have to help yourself."

House slammed his beer down on the kitchen counter. Beer overflowed from the bottle and started to pool and drip. "I'm fine," he growled.

"Do you want me to send you back to the third floor? Is that what you want?" said Wilson in an unconscious Taxi Driver impersonation. He came round the couch and stuck his face close to House's. "I'll do it," he threatened.

"Why?"

That threw Wilson. He groped for an answer. "I don't want you to get hurt," he said uncertainly.

House said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded and laughed softly to himself. "Great Jimmy. It is good to know that you are there for me. Always watching my back." He threw Wilson's words back at him. "Making sure I don't get hurt. Jimmy Wilson: the great protector."

House abandoned his beer, still foaming over the kitchen counter and pushed past Wilson, either intentionally or unintentionally knocking his shoulder as he made his way to the bedroom.

Wilson just stood there. He closed his eyes and looked into the darkness House saw every single moment of every single day. Fuck it House. It had been one night. One stupid night.

* * *

"What aren't you telling me?" said Cuddy.

"About what?"

"You know perfectly well."

"You know what happened."

"No, I know _how_ it happened. I don't know _why_ it happened."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's just say: a lot happened."

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

Twelve hours they left him. Just another stupid drunk. Let him sleep it off. He was overlooked they said. Someone lost the paperwork. Twelve hours of agony while the chemicals burned his sight out of him. Twelve hours before someone realized he was there. Twelve hours before someone realized he wasn't moaning because he was hung over. Twelve hours before someone tried to wash his eyes out.

It did no good. It took four of them to hold him down and he just kept on screaming and screaming.

Twelve hours before they called a doctor. Twelve hours before he hissed between agonized breaths the doctor was a moron and that it was an allergic reaction.

Too long before they got him to a hospital.

And where were you Jimmy boy? Where were you?

You should have been there. Because it was your fault.

And where were you?

* * *

Wilson blearily opened his eyes. Where was he? Home… House's couch. Hungover and stinking of vomit. He levered himself painfully up and staggered off to the bathroom. A good thirty minute shower later and he emerged, disgusted with himself, but clean. He knocked softly on the door of House's room and peaked in. Perhaps House remembered. Oh, he was sure House remembered and would give him hell for whatever travesty he had made of himself last night. But House wasn't there. His bed was unmade, but un-slept in.

House must have gone off somewhere. He plodded into the kitchen for some coffee. It was only when he saw Steve squeaking furiously at him in a rat-esque plea for food that he got an uneasy feeling in his gut. House ate bad, drank too much and didn't think Wilson knew about the morphine stash on the top shelf, but no matter what House always fed Steve.

* * *

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

In twelve hours you can go from being relatively happy to blind (now there was a word) drunk because your wife was cheating on you. In twelve hours you can blind your best friend.

You were the one who was drunk. He only had one beer because he was only there to look after you. You were the one who started the fight because you were angry. He was the one who came out to look after you and stopped you getting pummeled into next Thursday. You were the one who was dragged away; too incoherent to tell the police it wasn't him. He was the one they thought was holding a weapon. The last thing you saw before you passed out was the back of the taxi. The last thing he saw was the cop with the mace.

* * *

"You're angry."

"Of course I'm angry," yelled House as he waved his fists.

"At me?"

That stopped him. "What?" House paused. "No. Not at you." He suddenly realized. "I'm angry at being blind. I'm angry at you for feeling guilty. I'm angry at life in general. You know me. I am always angry."

House pointed to his bad leg. "This was stupidity," he said.

Then he pointed to his eyes. His face had a look on it that practically screamed 'Wilson's an idiot'. "This I would do again in a heartbeat," he said simply as if amazed that Wilson hadn't realised.

Wilson was glad House was blind. He couldn't see the quiet tears in his eyes. It was so simple to House he hadn't even thought it needed explaining: Wilson was Wilson and Wilson was worth it. Now that was some kick ass alliteration.

Breaking the impasse House limped over and tugged on Wilson's tie in a silent question. Another Housism. He never said: he did.

"Quack quack," said Wilson. "It's always been quack quack. I never bought any others."

"You lied to me," said House in amazement.

"I always lie to you. It's great. You can never tell."

House pouted. "Your barstardness, which we will discuss in greater depth later, aside. You really never bought any of those other ties."

Wilson looked thoughtful. "Well, being practical – did I really need to?"

"You conniving cheap bastard."

Wilson smiled and gave a mock bow. "Thank you, I leaned from the master."

"So have you been wearing it all along or were you still wearing the ugly ones?"

"Nope, just Daffy."

"What happened to all the ugly ones?"

"I ditched them."

The look on House's face was priceless. "Do you mean you have been wearing a Daffy Duck tie to board meetings?" he said incredulously.

Wilson involuntarily blushed and in that instant House had his hand on Wilson's cheek.

"You have too," he said with a smile.

* * *

"Are we OK?"

"Remember the time I got you really really drunk and I stole your trousers and handcuffed you to a streetlight?"

"Not something you forget very easily. At least you had the courtesy to bail me out."

"And yet – here you are. Still talking to me."

"I presume that was some sort of cryptic, but ultimately revealing metaphor that I am meant to ponder in the early hours of the morning because actually getting a straight answer out of you is like drawing blood from a stone."

"I'd use a more imaginative metaphor than blood from a stone, but you've got it in one Jimmy. Got it in one. You see I'm the deep and complex one the chicks dig. You on the other hand are as deep as a fish bowl."

* * *

A lot can happen in twelve hours.

In twelve hours you can go from miserable to sort of content. In twelve hours your best friend can go from wanting punch your lights out to happily falling asleep on the couch.

And where were you Jimmy Boy? Where were you?

Right next to him.

THE END


End file.
